“Is there any paperwork, Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan asked quietly.

“Some,” Jensen admitted. “Not very much.”

“What about e-mails? You must have corresponded with the site’s users?”

Jensen nodded slowly. “The families of victims, yes. Are they all suspects too?”

“How soon can you get everything to me?”

“Do I need to talk to my lawyer?”

“Might be an idea. Meantime, I’d like to send someone to your home. He knows about computers. If he comes to you, it saves us having to take your hard drive elsewhere.”

“All right.”

“His name’s Bain.” Eric Bain of the pneumatic girlfriend…Siobhan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “He’s a detective sergeant, like me. What time this evening would suit?”

“You look rough,” Mairie Henderson said as Rebus tried to squeeze himself into the passenger seat of her sports car.

“Restless night,” he told her. What he didn’t add was that her 10 a.m. call had woken him. “Does this thing go back any farther?”

She bent down and tugged at a lever, sending Rebus’s seat flying backward. Rebus turned to examine what space was left behind him. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

“In that case, you can pay for the drinks.”

“What drinks are those?”

“Our excuse for being there in the first place.” She was heading for the top of Arden Street. Left, right, and left would put her on Grange Road and only five minutes away from Prestonfield House.

Prestonfield House Hotel was one of the city’s better-kept secrets. Surrounded by 1930s bungalows and with views across to the projects of Craigmillar and Niddrie, it seemed an unpromising location for a grand house in the baronial style. Its substantial grounds-including an adjacent golf course-gave plenty of privacy. The only time the place had been in the news, to Rebus’s knowledge, was when a member of the Scottish parliament had tried setting fire to the curtains after a party.

“I meant to ask on the phone…” Rebus said to Mairie.

“What?”

“How do you know about this?”

“Contacts, John. No journalist should ever leave home without them.”

“Tell you something you’ve left at home though…the brakes on this bloody death trap.”

“It’s a road racer,” she told him. “Doesn’t sound right when you dawdle.” But she eased her foot back a little.

“Thanks,” he said. “So what’s the occasion exactly?”

“Morning coffee, then he gives his pitch, and then lunch.”

“Where exactly?”

She shrugged. “A meeting room, I suppose. Maybe the restaurant for the actual lunch.” She signaled left into the hotel driveway.

“And we are…?”

“Looking for some peace and quiet amid the madness. Plus a pot of tea for two.”

Staff were awaiting them at the front door. Mairie explained the situation. There was a room off to the left where their needs could be met, or another to the right, just past a closed door.

“Something on in there?” Mairie asked, pointing.

“Business meeting,” the employee revealed.

“Well, just so long as they’re not kicking up a fuss, we’ll be fine in here.” She entered the adjoining room. Rebus heard peacocks squawking outside on the lawn.

“Is it tea you’re wanting?” the young man asked.

“Coffee for me,” Rebus told him.

“Tea-peppermint if you’ve got it; otherwise chamomile.” The employee disappeared, and Mairie pressed her ear to the wall.

“I thought eavesdropping had gone electronic,” Rebus commented.

“If you can afford it,” Mairie whispered. She lifted her ear away. “All I can hear is muttering.”

“Stop the presses.”

She ignored him, pulled a chair over toward the doorway, making sure she’d have a view of anyone entering or leaving the meeting.

“Lunch sharpish at twelve, that’s my guess. Get them feeling good about their host.” She checked her watch.

“I brought a woman here for dinner once,” Rebus mused. “Had coffee in the library after. It’s upstairs. Walls a sort of curdled red. I think someone told me they were leather.”

“Leather wallpaper? Kinky,” Mairie said with a smile.

“By the way, I never did thank you for going straight to Cafferty with news of Cyril Colliar…” His eyes drilled into hers, and she had the good grace to allow some red to creep up her neck.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“Nice to know that when I come to you with confidential information, you’ll feed it to the city’s biggest villain.”

“Just that once, John.”

“Once too often.”

“The Colliar killing has been gnawing away at him.”

“Just the way I like it.”

She gave a tired smile. “Just the once,” she repeated. “And please bear in mind the huge favor I’m currently doing you.”

Rebus decided not to answer, walked back out into the hall instead. The reception desk was at the far end, past the restaurant. It had changed a bit in the years since Rebus had spent half his paycheck on that meal. The drapes were heavy, the furniture exotic, tassels everywhere. A dark-skinned man in a blue silk suit tried to pass Rebus, giving a little bow.

“Morning,” Rebus said.

“Good morning,” he said crisply, coming to a stop. “Is the meeting already closing?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The man bowed his head again. “My apologies. I thought perhaps…” But he left the sentence unfinished and walked the rest of the way to the door, tapping once before disappearing inside. Mairie had come out for a look.

“Not much of a secret knock,” Rebus informed her.

“It’s not the Masons.”

Rebus wasn’t so sure about that. What was the G8, after all, if not a very private club?

The door was opening again, two more men stepping out. They made for the driveway, stopping to light their cigarettes.

“Breaking up for lunch?” Rebus guessed. He followed Mairie back to the doorway of their own little room and watched the men filter out. Maybe twenty of them. Some looked African, others Asian and Middle Eastern. A few wore what Rebus took to be their national dress.

“Maybe Kenya, Sierra Leone, Niger…” Mairie was whispering.

“Meaning that really you’ve got no idea whatsoever?” Rebus whispered back.

“Geography was never my strong point-” She broke off and clutched his arm. A tall imposing figure was now mingling with the others, shaking hands and exchanging some words. Rebus recognized him from Mairie’s press pack. His elongated face was tanned and lined, and some brown had been added to his hair. Pinstripe suit with an inch of crisp, white shirt cuff. He had a smile for everyone, seemed to know them personally. Mairie had retreated a few steps farther into the room, but Rebus stayed in the doorway. Richard Pennen took a good photograph. In the flesh, the face was slightly scrawnier, the eyes heavy-lidded. But he did look disgustingly healthy, as though he had spent the previous weekend on a tropical beach. Assistants stood on either side of him, whispering information into his ear, making sure this part of the day, like those before and after, was without a hitch of any kind.

Suddenly, a member of the staff was blocking Rebus’s view. He bore a tray with the tea and coffee. As Rebus moved to let him pass, he saw that he’d come to Pennen’s notice.

“Your treat, I believe,” Mairie was saying. Rebus turned into the room and paid for the drinks.

“Would it be Detective Inspector Rebus?” The deep voice came from Richard Pennen. He was standing just a few feet away, still flanked by his assistants.

Mairie took a couple of steps toward him and held out her hand.

“Mairie Henderson, Mr. Pennen. Terrible tragedy at the castle the other night.”

“Terrible,” Pennen agreed.

“I believe you were there.”

“I was.”

“She’s a journalist, sir,” one of the assistants said.

“I’d never have guessed,” Pennen answered with a smile.

“Just wondering,” Mairie plowed on, “why you were paying for Mr. Webster’s hotel room.”